Latest revision as of 20:46, July 1, 2011

If you had asked me, in 1978, if I thought Reset Smith would sell commercially, I would've laughed wildly. I didn't think Reset would even make it to print: cyberpunk hadn't become established as a genre yet, and at the time, no one really considered robots in any other faculty than utility (this was, of course, before "Bladerunner" and "Total Recall"). Enter Mr. Smith, a neo-noir detective with a heart of circuitry. It was an unlikely hero for the era.

Now, ten years, twelve novels, and four feature films later, Reset Smith rivals James Bond in international popularity. I'd never dreamed it possible. Reset has taken his rightful place in the annals of popular culture: proof of man's interest in the future, and the prospect of a more interesting tomorrow. We're all looking forward to what comes next, whether it be Sam Spade-type cyborg detectives, or televisions and computers mounted inside our refrigerator doors. Its all waiting, somewhere in the future.

Until the future and the present intertwine as one, enjoy the very first installment in Reset's saga. May the precision of fiber optic mainframing bring you the same joy it has brought me, and my lovely wife Loretta.

The barrel of a well-polished Derringer pistol aimed a small laser beam squarely at the man's head. He, on his knees, began to weep. Cold steel, palmed by even colder steel, beneath a streetlight on the Langston Peer; he'd never imagined what death would be like, but surely it wouldn't be staged aside a sardine cannery, right? Wrong. He'd really messed up.

The office was like any supersleuth's; food wrappers, empty liquor bottles. A soldering iron and workbench. Nearly collapsing on his way up the stairs, Reset burst through the entryway, clutching his right arm. Wires were exposed, frying his celluskin. He sat at his desk, preheated the iron, and poured a stiff shot of Remy Martin. It was turning into a long evening, and it was only 10:30pm. Various papers, business papers... important papers, covered the office floor, towering in giant stacked piles where ever there was room. Slightly rusted tools lined a wall panel, showing their age. The space was hardly adequate for proper self repair. The name on the front door read RESET SMITH - INVESTIGADOR PRIVADO. Why "private investigator" was written in Spanish, no man can say. Reset gripped the warming iron and gulped his brandy down swiftly. In a jagged motion, he held the iron high in the air. Its warmth could be felt through the foam rubber grip; it was definitely hot enough now. Thrusting with great force, he plunged the iron into his arm, severing several wires therein. With a series of complex mechanical motions, wires were disconnected and reattached, swapped and replaced. Working at lightning speed and never once flinching, Reset mended his wounds. He repatched all bad cables, replaced his skin, and poured another drink.

Though still approximately 30 yards away, Smith heard footsteps. He swiftly gulped his alcohol, and moved his good arm to his hip. Positioning himself for a precise angle, he extracted his weapon from it's holster, perfectly centered on the opaque glass pane which could swing open at any moment. The footsteps continued, up the stairs one-by-one. His throat tightened, still scorching from the previous shot of liquor -- would his weary hardware perform proper functions? Would he hit his target? Was it the person who stabbed him sometime earlier in the night? Questions were being funneled through Smith's risk factor analyzers at rapid rates. 10:30? Who the hell could be darkening the already darkened doorways of this old office building? The black shadow of a human body appeared through the dimly lit glass.

Reset focused his vision. The body was small; if it were a man, he would be small enough to take on. He made his way to the door, pressed the gun against the wall beside, and turned the handle. As it began to creek open, Autospeak activated: "IDENTIFY!"

"My name is Lina, Mr. Smith. Lina Malinkoff. I need to speak to you about something rather urgent."

Reset pulled the door open slowly, his eyes scanning as the door slowly revealed the young lady on the other side. A white dress, white hat, white gloves. The hat cast a shadow over her face, obscuring all but the end of her shoulder-length blonde hair. Reset relaxed his CPU clocking; she was an unexpected caller, and a rather stunning human. Like a towering boulder he stood before her in the doorway, his arm leaned against the wall, hiding his pistol from her sight. Smith stepped aside, letting the woman pass before him. Her movement was graceful, as if she were gliding. The white brim of her hat rose, revealing the pale face underneath, with mesmerizing blue eyes and deep red lips. She was as an immaculate doll, perfect and porcelain.